by R. L. Stine
I suddenly felt so light, as if an enormous weight had been removed from my shoulders. I felt as if I could spread my arms and fly, fly to the roof of the cave!
I wanted to leap. I wanted to shout. I wanted to scream for joy.
But then, suddenly, the chanting stopped. The men grew silent.
I turned—and gasped.
I watched the mummy’s frail, crossed arms unfold. The bandaged arms slowly slid down to its sides.
The small head tilted.
And then cries of horror rang out all around me as the mummy took a lurching step forward.
And then another.
“The mummy walks!” General Rameer cried. “The mummy walks!”
The mummy stuck out its arms stiffly and staggered forward. It scraped its gauzed feet over the cave floor, sending up clouds of dust.
Its head tilted from side to side as it lurched blindly forward. SCRAPE … SCRAPE …
All around me, startled cries turned to moans of horror.
“The curse!” a man yelled. “The curse of Pukrah!”
“Pukrah walks!” General Rameer choked out. He began backing up, his face twisted in shock.
The lights darted over the mummy as it leaned forward, staggering stiffly, arms outstretched. And then the circles of light swung away—and swept over the cave walls as General Rameer’s men turned away.
A rush of light toward the cave entrance.
Moaning in terror, whispering their shock, the men followed the light. They stampeded over the rock-strewn floor, kicking up thick curtains of dust.
The darting lights swirled in the rising dust. Strange shadows slid toward the cave opening beside the fleeing men.
It reminded me of an old black-and-white movie, all out of focus, running at the wrong speed.
I stood as if hypnotized, watching. Watching …
I watched General Rameer duck his head as he shot out of the cave entrance, into an orange shaft of morning sunlight. I watched his men follow, running in panic, squeezing through the entrance, out of the cave, and still running.
I’ve got to run too, I suddenly realized.
The strange scene had frozen me in place. The cold horror had paralyzed me.
But now I knew I had to follow the others. I turned to run—too late.
Too late!
The mummy—Pukrah’s mummy—was on me.
The ancient arms rose up in my face.
The mummy grabbed me!
Grabbed me by the throat with its ancient, dusty hands.
So strong … so inhumanly strong …
It wrapped its hands around my throat and started to squeeze.
“Nooooo—” I choked out.
The mummy loosened its grip.
The gauzed hands slid away.
Pukrah tilted back his head. And from beneath the heavy covering, I heard laughter.
I staggered back, rubbing my throat. My heart thudded in my chest. I struggled to see through the billowing curtain of dust.
“Pukrah—” I murmured.
The mummy raised its hands to its face and began clawing at the bandages.
I stared in shock as it pulled bandages loose.
“Michael—help me!” it cried, its voice muffled behind the gauze. Its hands pulled helplessly at the bandages.
“Michael—get this stuff off!”
“Huh?” I swallowed hard and stared in disbelief. “Megan?”
“Of course. Megan,” she replied. “Who else? Get this off! I can’t breathe!”
I took a deep breath and stepped forward to help her. I shoved her hands away and began tearing bandages from her face.
“Megan—good job!” I exclaimed. “But how—?”
“It took all morning,” she groaned.
I unwrapped several layers, and her face appeared, damp from sweat. “Didn’t you notice I wasn’t around this morning?” she asked.
“Well … I looked for you,” I replied. “But—”
I unwrapped her hands. Then we both began tugging the gauze off the rest of her.
“Megan—you scared me to death!” I cried. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?”
“How could I?” she replied. “The general had you watched night and day. I couldn’t get near you.”
She stepped out from the pile of bandages. She had wrapped the stuff around her clothes, around her boots.
“But—why?” I choked out.
“I was worried about you, Michael,” she replied, pulling gauze from her hair. “In your tent last night, you were sweating. You seemed so totally stressed. I thought maybe you were lying to me.”
“Maybe …” I muttered, embarrassed.
“So I checked out the cave last night,” Megan continued. “And guess what? No mummy. So I knew I had to think fast. I had to think of a way to save your life—until you can find the real hiding place.”
Her eyes locked on mine. “You do know the hiding place, don’t you?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer.
We both screamed as we saw the soldiers burst into the cave, rifles raised.
About a dozen black-uniformed soldiers.
Rebel soldiers.
“It’s the boy!” one of them cried.
“The boy and Rameer’s daughter!” another rebel exclaimed.
They blocked the cave entrance.
“Don’t move,” one of them said, moving toward us, his dark eyes darting from Megan to me, his rifle in front of his chest. “You will come with us.”
“You—you’re going to rescue us?” I cried.
He snickered. His eyes remained icy cold. “Not quite.”
Rebel vans and Jeeps had pulled up to the rock cliff. Megan and I were forced into the back of a black van. The windows had been painted over. We couldn’t see out.
A grim-faced rebel soldier, lean and bearded, a black beret tilted over his forehead, kept a pistol on us from the seat in front.
The van bounced over the desert. We roared over the sand, tires spinning loudly.
Megan and I huddled unhappily in the back, our hands clasped tightly in our laps. “What are they going to do to us?” I whispered.
Megan shrugged. “They could do anything,” she whispered back. Her chin trembled. “They are more evil than the general and his men. Much more evil and desperate.”
That news didn’t cheer me up.
After about an hour, the van squealed to a stop. The bearded soldier jumped out quickly and pulled open the back door. He motioned with his pistol for Megan and me to climb out.
We stepped out into blinding sunlight. Two rows of black canvas tents stretched in a flat, sandy clearing in front of us, hidden by tall rock cliffs.
A tall, powerful-looking man strode out of the first tent. He had long, curly black hair, black eyes under heavy black eyebrows, a scowl on his tanned face. He wore baggy black trousers and an oversized black shirt, unbuttoned, revealing a broad, tanned chest.
“Here they are, General Mohamm. The two prisoners,” the soldier said, motioning to Megan and me with his pistol.
The general eyed us both without smiling. “Are you General Rameer’s adopted daughter?” he asked Megan.
She nodded.
“That makes us cousins,” he said, a tiny smile creasing his face. “General Rameer is my cousin.”
“He says you are a traitor,” Megan sneered.
The general’s eyes flared angrily. He turned to me. “And you are the one they hid in America?”
“I—I guess,” I stammered.
I concentrated on keeping my knees from shaking.
General Mohamm took a step closer. His expression turned menacing. “You are the son of the former leaders? You are the one with the secret of Pukrah’s mummy hidden in your brain?”
“I don’t know!” I cried. “My name is Michael Clarke. I grew up in Long Island, New York. I don’t know anything—”
General Mohamm rubbed the black stubble on his chin. “General Rameer cannot rule wit
hout the mummy,” he said thoughtfully. “If I find the mummy before he does, he will have to pay attention to me.”
“But I don’t know anything!” I protested.
“We are wasting time,” the general said, scowling. He motioned to two black-uniformed soldiers who stood at the side of his tent. They came hurrying over.
“Take the boy to the operating tent,” General Mohamm ordered. “Let’s find this computer chip. Now.”
I took off.
I couldn’t let them slice open my head.
I dove past General Mohamm.
He uttered a cry. Grabbed for me. Missed.
I cut sharply. My legs nearly fell out from under me as I slid around the side of his tent. Shooting out both arms to catch my balance, I flew past a long row of tents.
“Go, Michael! Go, Michael!”
I could hear Megan cheering me on.
I reached the last tent in the row. Spun back. Then turned toward the desert.
Where to run?
Where could I go?
My eyes swept in one direction, then the other.
I knew I couldn’t outrun them. And I couldn’t see any place to hide in the flat sands of the clearing.
Don’t stop to think, Michael! I scolded myself.
Just run!
I spun away from the rebel camp and took off over the sand.
My shoes sank in the soft sand. I kept slipping. I felt as if I weighed a thousand pounds.
But I forced myself to run.
I didn’t get far.
Several black-uniformed soldiers caught up to me easily.
They surrounded me, rifles raised. Their faces were blank. Their eyes cold. They didn’t say a word.
I struggled to catch my breath as they hustled me back to General Mohamm at the front of the camp.
He shook his head and frowned at me. His dark eyes gazed at me, almost sadly. “There is nowhere to run, Michael,” he said softly.
Megan stood between two soldiers. “At least you tried!” she called to me.
“Take him,” the general ordered his men. “Watch him closely. He may be foolish enough to try again.”
The soldiers grabbed my arms, but I pulled free.
“Please!” I cried.
The general had already started back to his tent. He turned at the sound of my cry.
“Please don’t cut open my head!” I begged.
For some reason, that made him chuckle.
He shook his head, smiling as if I’d said something funny.
“Please—” I repeated.
The soldiers grabbed me again. They pulled me roughly, nearly lifting me off the ground.
“Let him go!” I heard Megan cry angrily. “Hey—let him go!”
But of course the soldiers ignored her.
And dragged me into the surgery tent.
White-gowned doctors were waiting there.
The soldiers forced me onto my back on a high metal table.
The doctors strapped down my hands and feet. They covered me with a heavy blanket.
Then they raised a large metal machine over me and prepared to operate.
“No!” I cried.
I struggled to free myself, twisting my legs, straining my arms against the straps.
No. I couldn’t budge them.
The doctors lowered a section of the machine and swung it around to point at my head.
“Please—” I cried. “Don’t cut my head open. Don’t open my brain—”
A young doctor with wavy black hair poking out of his clear plastic surgical cap leaned over me. His dark eyes locked on mine. “We’re not going to cut you,” he said.
I swallowed. “Huh? You’re not?”
He shook his head. “We’re not going to cut you. We’re going to X-ray you.”
“Ohhhhhh.”
A long sigh of relief escaped my mouth.
“You can relax,” the doctor said, patting my chest. “It isn’t going to hurt. You are very lucky. We stole this X-ray machine from a hospital across the border.”
I shut my eyes. I was so happy.
They don’t have to open my brain. They just have to photograph it.
But then what? I suddenly wondered, my eyes shooting open, my heart beginning to race again.
What will they do when they see there is no memory chip?
Or what if they find a memory chip?
What will they do then? Go in and get it?
The equipment buzzed and hummed. At least they told the truth about one thing—it was painless.
“We should steal a CAT’-SCAN machine,” I heard a doctor murmur.
“How are we going to power one of those out in the desert?” another doctor replied.
More buzzing and humming.
And then the machine was lifted and swung away.
“Wait here,” a doctor told me.
Did I have a choice?
The doctors disappeared. The tent stood empty. I lay there, listening to voices outside the tent.
A fly landed on my cheek. I couldn’t swat it off. I shook my head hard. The fly walked up my cheek to my forehead.
I could feel its sticky legs move on my hot skin. It made my whole body tingle and itch. Sweat rolled down into my eyes.
I shook my head again. Finally, the fly darted away.
After a few minutes, I heard footsteps approaching. Voices. I expected to see the doctors. But two soldiers leaned over me.
“You’re finished here,” one of them said. He started to unclasp my hands and feet.
“The general wants to see you,” the other soldier said.
Rubbing my sore wrists, I followed them out into the bright afternoon sunlight. My stomach growled. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
As we made our way along the row of tents, I searched for Megan. But she was nowhere in sight.
The soldiers led me up to General Mohamm. He stood in front of his tent talking to a small group of men. He turned away from them when he saw me. As he came striding over to me, his dark eyes locked on mine.
“Michael,” he said. “The X rays were very interesting.”
“Interesting?” I choked out.
He nodded. “There’s no memory chip inside your brain,” he said, frowning. “You’re not the right boy!”
“I knew it!” I blurted out. “I knew it!”
“You’re not the prince,” General Mohamm sneered. “You are an imposter. We have no use for you.”
“Yes!” I cried happily. “Yes! What does that mean? Does that mean that I can go home now?”
He ignored me. His frown grew deeper. The light seemed to fade from his eyes.
He turned to the two soldiers who had remained close at my sides.
“You two,” he said softly, “take Michael out to the desert and kill him.”
“No way!” I cried.
Once again I tried to run.
And once again I was easily caught by the general’s black-uniformed soldiers.
“Take him,” General Mohamm repeated. He motioned with his head toward the desert. “He has wasted our time.”
The soldiers started to drag me away.
But another soldier—an enormous man— came bouncing up to the general. Big and broad, built like a buffalo, he had long, curly black hair flying around his face and a black eye patch over one eye.
“Wait!” he cried breathlessly, holding up two huge hands.
“What is the problem, Raoul?” the general asked sharply.
The two soldiers continued to grip my arms tightly. But they stopped to hear what Raoul was saying.
“Is the boy an American citizen?” he asked General Mohamm.
The general rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t know. Why does it matter?”
“We don’t want trouble with the U.s.,” the big man said, breathing hard from his run.
The general narrowed his dark eyes thoughtfully.
“When we defeat Rameer and take over the kingdom, we want the U.s.
to be our friend,” Raoul said. “So let the boy go. Do not kill him.”
Yesssss! I thought. Listen to him, General. Please—listen to him!
“No,” General Mohamm said, shaking his head. “I cannot let him go. He has seen our camp. He will tell Rameer where we are hiding.”
“But the U.s. government—” Raoul started.
“They will never know.” The general cut him off. “And if they find out the boy died, we will tell them it was not us. That General Rameer had him killed.”
Raoul stared at the general for a long moment, still breathing hard. Finally, he shrugged his huge shoulders and tossed up his hands. “Fine, General. Have it your way. The boy must die.”
“No—wait!” I cried. “There’s no reason to kill me! I—I can’t give away your hiding place. I don’t have any idea where we are!”
The soldiers began to drag me away.
“How are you going to kill him?” I heard Raoul ask. “You cannot shoot him, General. Our bullets can be traced to us. We don’t want anyone to know that—”
“Take him to the python pit,” the general commanded the soldiers. “The pythons have not been fed in a while. The boy will make a good meal.”
I dug my heels into the sand. I thrashed my arms and tried to pull free.
But the soldiers were too strong. They pulled me easily, past the rows of canvas tents, out over the flat yellow sand.
Python pit? Python pit?
The words repeated in my mind. Each time they repeated, my throat felt tighter, my legs felt heavier, my heart pounded faster.
Python pit?
They don’t really have a snake pit dug into the sand—do they? I wondered.
They’re not really going to feed me to pythons— are they?
I stared out at the desert. The afternoon sun made the sand sparkle like gold, so bright I had to squint.
The only sound was our breathing and the WHUSH WHUSH of our shoes sinking into the sand as we walked.
I glanced back and saw that General Mohamm and Raoul were following us. Their faces were grim. They stared straight ahead, avoiding my eyes.
Up ahead in the shimmering distance, I saw a black pennant waving on a tall stick. As we came closer, I saw a dark opening, a wide circle in the sand beside the pennant.
A pit. Cut deep in the sand.
We stopped at its edge. I tried to squirm away. But the silent soldiers gripped me tightly.
